


Lest We Forget

by GypsyGold



Category: Original Work
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Gen, Memorial Day, Veterans Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:21:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27517537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GypsyGold/pseuds/GypsyGold
Summary: Every Memorial Day and Veterans Day he raises a toast to the brothers- and sisters-in-arms that he has, and those that he's lost.





	Lest We Forget

**Author's Note:**

> This is an original work. All characters and concepts are mine.  
> Do not repost my works without my express permission.
> 
> This is an excerpt of a novel I've been working on for several years. It was inspired by something a soldier once told me, how on every Memorial Day and Veterans Day he raises a toast to the brothers- and sisters-in-arms that he has, and those that he's lost.
> 
> For those who are first responders, or in the military; those who have served or continue to serve, and those whom we have lost. I am humbled by and grateful for your sacrifice and service.
> 
> \----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The room she steps into is quiet, and dimly lit. For a moment she thinks it's empty, then her eyes adjust and she can see him sitting on the couch, elbows on his knees and a glass in his hands. He doesn't look at her, merely murmurs her name to indicate he's noticed her arrival.

She keeps her tone soft, like the lighting. "Is everything all right?"

"It's Veteran's Day."

She weighs his tone and mood, then asks "May I join you?"

He nods toward the kitchen. "Help yourself."

He's left the bottle on the counter, the good scotch he keeps for special occasions. He's silent as she retrieves a glass and the club soda, pours herself a drink. Soon she is on the couch next to him, holding up her glass in a toast.

"To those we have, and those we've lost."

He lifts his glass to meet hers, the chime of the crystal high and clear in the quiet room, and they drink. He looks at the pale color in her glass–-more soda than scotch–-and gives her a chiding look, raising one eyebrow. She responds with a tiny little shrug, acknowledging and waiving off the gentle jibe. It's a familiar exchange between them, and she's glad to see it brings a faint smile to his face. She presses her shoulder to his as a quiet assurance of her presence, her support, and her willingness to listen if he needs it. 

He sits back and lays his hand out on his knee, palm up. Her smile is soft as she leans back with him and slides her hand into his, and he closes his fingers over hers with a gentle squeeze. Eventually, he speaks. His voice is low as he tells her about the brothers- and sisters-in-arms he's lost, a list longer than anyone should know. Sometimes when he falls silent she shares a name from her own list, and slowly they trade back and forth. Their lists only intersect once: someone he served with early in his career who she served with later. It's his turn to be that steady support as she tells him what happened to their friend.

They talk for hours, sometimes lapsing into mutual silence that they use to refill their glasses, or to get water as their voices grow hoarse. Each time he heads to the kitchen he gives her hand a squeeze to indicate he wants to keep that point of contact, so she goes with him. They maneuver easily around each other, her free hand substituting for his where needed.

Eventually they start trading stories about the people they still have. Their lists intersect more often, catching each other up on who's gone where, received what promotion, had a new baby, sent kids off to college, or retired. As the stories gradually become lighter, so do they.

When they finally run out of names, they sit in easy silence. At some point she laid her cheek against his shoulder, so he nudges her with it to get her attention. She tilts her head to look at him, humming an inquiry. 

"I'm getting hungry. Do you want anything? You're welcome to stay."

"I'd like that," she nods, moving to sit up. He tugs on their joined hands, pulling her gaze back to him. 

"I'm glad you're here."

"So am I." She gives his hand a squeeze, and his fingers tighten in response before releasing. He starts listing off ideas for dinner as he rises, picking up his glasses and heading to the kitchen. The start of her response is cut off with the clatter of a glass against the coffee table. He turns, ready to tease her about not having had enough alcohol in her glass to justify fumbling the glassware.

She's not there. Her glasses are still on the coffee table, one on the coaster, one on the wood as though it had slipped from her hand when she picked it up. He can't help calling her name, but knows she won't answer. As he sets his glasses down on the counter he realizes their mistake; they'd broken contact. 

With a sigh, he goes to retrieve her glasses. He smiles a little as he picks up her unfinished "soda with a little scotch," but the smile fades as her absence sinks in. He raises her glass in a silent toast, and drinks.


End file.
